


A Hotel Room

by schifaroo



Series: Call Me Sir [2]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Aftercare, Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Anal Sex, BDSM, BDSM Scene, Bondage, CNC, Consensual Non-Consent, Dirty Talk, Dom Eliot Waugh, Dom/sub, Edging, Established Relationship, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation (off screen), M/M, Magic Power Play, Overstimulation, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rape Fantasy, Rape Roleplay, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sex Magic, Spanking, Sub Quentin Coldwater, muggle roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:46:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28497036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schifaroo/pseuds/schifaroo
Summary: “You’ve never seen magic, have you, Quentin?”—In which Quentin drops some hints, and Eliot is exceptionally accommodating.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: Call Me Sir [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2087397
Comments: 10
Kudos: 76





	A Hotel Room

**Author's Note:**

> Oh, silly me. Did my smutty CNC one-shot turn into a series? Complete with back story about Eliot Wuagh's life between Indiana and Brakebills? 
> 
> _You'd think I'd write that story right? Nope. Here's some more smut._

It had been a long time since Eliot knew a world without magic. It was difficult for him to remember what life was like before it. Quentin remembered, though, and he could imagine exactly how terrifying it might have been if confronted by a hedge witch or Magician in the course of his everyday life before Brakebills. 

Quentin mentioned it _a lot_. Just like he brought up wanting to do something special for the three day weekend after midterms _a lot_. Just like he reminded Eliot of certain promises made on their last weekend getaway _a lot_.

Eliot knew how to take a hint. 

* * *

There was a long queue to check-in at the hotel. Each minute rankled more than the last. Quentin regretted his lack of foresight to check-in online with increasing self-deprecation as he watched each happy-go-lucky genius skip the line, one right after the other. 

Quentin shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. It certainly didn’t help that he’d decided to travel in a tight button-down and skinny jeans. He regretted his decision to leave all his comfortable hoodies behind in his laundry hamper.

He felt dirty from his flight. He wanted a shower and a nap and a drink. He didn’t particularly care which order. He just wanted to get to his room for some peace and quiet.

Quentin glanced around at the busy lobby and tried not to sigh in aggravation. 

He was fourth in line.

Third.

Second.

Finally, he was next.

* * *

Someone was in his shower.

Quentin immediately panicked because a mistake like this could only possibly be his fault. He checked the small folio that his room key came in; he double-checked; triple checked. He had the right room number. His key had unlocked the door.

“Excuse me? Um. I think you have the wrong room!” Quentin shouted, knocking on the bathroom door. “I’m. I’d really appreciate it if you’d leave?”

The shower kept running. He could hear whoever it was singing to themselves. Quentin swallowed hard and knocked again. “Hello! Um. I’m not sure if you heard me? Hello!”

The water stopped. He could hear the rustling of someone toweling off—with his clean towels, no less. He’d need to call down for more. He’d have to call down for a cleaning altogether. Or a different room? It all sounded like it’d take hours. He wanted a drink and a shower and a nap and he’d already done enough waiting. He’d earned his right to shuck off his shoes and relax in _his_ hotel room.

The bathroom door swung open, and every justified complaint he had immediately quieted in his mind.

The man who occupied his bathroom had secured a towel low around his hips: lean, bare torso on display, still glistening wet where the towel had missed his pristine skin. His perfect, long fingers tousled his perfect, dark curls, still dripping water over his shoulders. 

Eliot was so goddamn beautiful. 

He stretched, one hand behind his neck, and Quentin’s attention immediately caught on his forearm, where his smattering of star tattoos was unhidden for the first time in weeks. Quentin knew he was intentionally showing them off. He knew Eliot knew _exactly_ how he felt about his tattoos and he was wielding them with precision. 

Quentin licked his lips and tried to remember what had been so problematic just moments before. 

“Sorry I let myself in,” the man’s pink lips curled into a smile, “I must congratulate myself, though. I can’t think of the last time I got so lucky choosing a room at random like this.” 

He extended a hand and ran a finger down Quentin’s jaw. Quentin nearly jumped, realizing belatedly how close he stood to the inconveniently attractive squatter. He shuffled backward, towards the bedroom. He glanced at the door, still slightly ajar from when he realized he wasn’t alone. 

Eliot noticed the flick of his eyes and turned to take a look himself.

“Oh, I can fix that,” Eliot twisted his wrist and the door snapped shut. Another twist and it locked. The sound seemed to echo through the small space. Quentin gulped.

“How did you just—”

“Magic, darling,” his lips turned up in an arrogant smirk, “I’d love to show you more, in exchange for your...accommodations.”

“No, I think you need to leave,” Quentin started strong, but as Eliot tilted his head to survey him, he lost momentum. “Please,” he finished weakly.

Eliot's smirk turned into a full-blown grin, “Oh, you are cute, aren’t you? But I’m afraid I wasn’t asking.”

Some invisible force wrapped around Quentin’s wrists and drew them up above his head. It kept pulling at him until he was hovering a few inches above the floor. He strained against the invisible power; the grip was unbreakable.

Eliot patted him down and pulled Quentin’s wallet from his front jeans pocket. 

“Take whatever you want in there. You can have the room even. Just. I don’t know how you’re doing this,” Quentin’s voice was shaking as he pulled against the invisible binding, “I don't want any trouble.”

“Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot purred his name as he looked over his driver’s license. A hint of a memory lanced through Quentin and he tried to shove it down and away before his body reacted more than it already had. “It really is lovely to meet you. You’ve never seen magic, have you, Quentin?”

“Magic isn’t real.” Quentin flailed his legs, trying to defend himself, even though Eliot was still feet away. Eliot gave a disappointed sigh and waved his hands again. Quentin could feel invisible bands wrap around his ankles, securing him to nothing, and halting any hope he had to fight back. 

“That’s better,” Eliot stepped close to him. They were eye level with each other, noses almost brushing, “You can call me sir, Quentin Coldwater.”

The command was wildfire after a drought in his veins, but Quentin tried not to let it show. 

“I’m not calling you anything,” Quentin breathed heavy, struggling to press past the panic rising in his chest, “Let me down. You don’t have any right—”

“But don’t you want to experience magic, my dear Quentin? It’s not every muggle gets to feel what I’m offering you.” He leaned forward and kissed his cheek before Quentin could jerk away from him.

“Well, I’m _declining_ your _offer_. Let me _go_ and you can have the fucking room.”

“Oh, it’s not about me having the room. Not anymore,” Eliot reached forward to brush Quentin’s hair out of his face, “No, this is about having you, now.”

His dark tone and his dark eyes stirred something equally dark under Quentin’s skin. He tried to not lose focus; he tried to not stoke the fire building low in his belly. Quentin raked his eyes over him—towel still in place, his hands calm, eyes watching him carefully.

Not to mention, those damn tattoos.

Eliot winked at him. He started to move his fingers in a complicated dance, “Repeat after me: repetere et resonare.”

Quentin glared at him.

“Be a good boy, now, Quentin,” Eliot said. His fingers didn’t stop moving. They were beautiful, long, sure, strong, mesmerizing. “Repetere et resonare.”

Quentin took a deep breath but didn’t say anything.

Eliot frowned, his fingers didn’t hesitate as they kept up their intricate pattern, “One more chance, Quentin, I don’t want to hurt you, but you will say it. Now, once more: repetere et resonare.”

When Quentin refused, Eliot slapped him across the face with an open palm. 

“Repetere et resonare,” Eliot commanded, resuming the twist of his fingers as if they’d never been interrupted. It was an amazing thing to watch: how graceful his movements were, how precise, how delicate.

“No,” Quentin forced the sound out in a grunt. Eliot slapped him again, and Quentin groaned as the sting bit through him, sowing anticipation in its wake. 

Eliot closed his hand around Quentin’s throat. 

“Say it,” Eliot growled, “Repetere et resonare.”

Eliot let go of him and resumed his tuts. Quentin could almost follow the pattern he traced in the air. Something in his chest tightened as he watched the way Eliot’s index fingers crossed, the way his thumbs curled into each other, the way his wrists turned. It made something in his stomach swoop in a way that wasn’t entirely fitting for the context. 

Quentin shook his head, trying to remind himself where they were, and what they were doing. He needed to get it together. Eliot was going all out for _him—_ had spent weeks in the library searching for a spell that would be just right for _him_. The least he could do was play along in his own fantasy.

Clearing his throat, Quentin took a deep breath. He yanked his eyes away from Eliot’s fingers to meet his eyes. Eliot had him; he always had him. Seeing it displayed so openly, in stark contrast with his character, made the swooping sensation worse. 

Quentin would love this man for the rest of his life if he let him.

It wasn’t his first time thinking it, but it was the first time it didn’t set him off into a panic. This time, it was a deep solace. It was home. It was relaxing and peaceful and quiet.

“Repetere et resonare,” Quentin managed to choke out the words. There was a soft blue glow at the tips of Eliot’s fingers. He repeated the pattern once, fingers glowing; then he stilled; then the light vanished. 

“Good boy,” Eliot extended a hand and traced the curve of Quentin’s ear with his thumb, maybe gentling him, maybe mocking him, maybe teasing him. Quentin’s eyes fluttered shut as Eliot’s breath spread over his still smarting cheek as he whispered, “Repetere.”

Eliot stepped back, and Quentin jumped in surprise as the spell took hold. 

“That’s—what _is_ that?” Quentin asked. It felt like an invisible finger tracing over the line of his ear, a repetition of the movement Eliot had just made. 

“Quentin, do you know what a looper pedal is?” Eliot started slowly unbuttoning Quentin’s shirt despite the way he tried to twist his torso away. “It’s what musicians use to create loops in their music, repeating a pre-recorded phrase of chords or beats. Think of this spell as a looper pedal, except...for how I touch you.”

Eliot emphasized his point by drawing his fingers together over Quentin’s throat and slowly dragging them down his chest, as Quentin’s shirt parted for him. He teased his fingertips over the trail of hair between Quentin’s navel to his belt buckle. 

“Repetere.”

A thumb still traced his sensitive ear, more fingers roamed over his chest: again, and again, and again. It made Quentin’s body convulse; made his concentration on glaring at his captor weaken; made him want to slide into the mindless heat he felt pooling in his balls.

Eliot opened Quentin’s shirt further and slipped his hands in, stroking his sides in one smooth, slow press of palms against sensitive skin.

“Repetere.”

Quentin shivered and tried to rip his hands from his bonds. “Why can’t you just take—take my room and— _ooh.”_

“Ah, you like that?” Eliot’s fingers danced over his exposed nipples. “It’ll be better for you if you let yourself relax and enjoy it. Let’s see...do you prefer soft, grazing fingers?”

Quentin bit his lips trying to stifle another moan. 

“Or do you perhaps like things a little more rough?”

Quentin kept biting his lip, screwing up his face, resisting his response as Eliot pinched both nipples. 

“Not enough bite, _mm_?”

Eliot licked over one nipple once, twice, then bit into the puckered flesh as fingers clamped down on his other nipple even harder. 

“Oh _god_ …” Quentin moaned.

“Repetere,” Eliot’s command spread over Quentin’s chest. He looked up at Quentin through his dark eyelashes, “I appreciate the feedback. If you let me know what you like, I can make this better for both of us.”

“Stop, that’s enough,” Quentin gasped out. 

Eliot moved in close, his lips barely brushing his neck as he said, “I’m not nearly close to done with you, sweet boy.”

Quentin tried to stifle another moan as Eliot gently traced his pounding pulse with his teeth. 

“Repetere,” Eliot’s voice was deep and raspy.

Eliot moved behind him and pressed against his back. Quentin could feel his breath, deep and even as his chest pressed against his back, their hips flush. Eliot reached around him and started undoing his belt. 

A hand wrapped around his throat, tilting his head back. He went easily, the fight draining out of him with each stroke of Eliot’s fingers, magic or real. His other hand slipped under the band of his boxer briefs, just resting there, in the valley between his hip and his cock, holding him in a way that would drive him mad. 

“Repetere.”

Eliot pushed his pants and underwear around his knees. He rubbed his hips and the side of his thighs as he stood again. 

“Repetere.”

Gentle hands massaged into his ass. Eliot gave him a soft pat on one cheek, then pressed soothing fingers into it, as if wiping it away. 

“You’re delicious, Quentin Coldwater,” Eliot whispered. 

Gentleness went out the window. He gripped and pulled and pressed, manhandling his ass, spanks for each cheek until Quentin knew they’d show red. He threw his head back, yelping with each strike. It was just frenzied enough he could believe it was uncontrolled if he let himself get caught up in it. He loved when Eliot painted his ass red like this. A final, harsh slap, and Eliot seemed to be satisfied enough to command his body to memorize the feeling with constant repetition. 

Quentin’s body was shaking—hands and teeth and lips spreading over him again and again, unrelenting spanks repeating more times than he could count. Delicate, perfect lips pressed into the nape of his neck. He could barely hear Eliot whisper the spell over his own heavy breathing.

Quentin couldn’t help but mewl in petition or protest or whatever else it might have been. Eliot growled at him then, grabbed his chin, and yanked him around to capture his lips with his own, sucking hard on his bottom lip. Eliot broke away and rested his forehead against Quentin’s shoulder, panting hard. It sent a thrill straight to his cock; he was being good; Eliot was keyed up and wanted him, and that meant he was being good for Sir.

Eliot muttered the spell and stepped away, still behind him. Quentin tried to twist his neck around—

“Face front,” Eliot barked out, still breathing hard. 

Quentin faced forward and hung his head. His cock was rock hard, blushing dark and he was already leaking. Quentin knew they couldn’t be done. He _needed_ Eliot to not be done. He was going to go insane if Eliot was done. Caresses spread all over his body but not where he _needed_ them. Certainly, Eliot _knew_ how badly he needed him. Certainly, he wasn’t going to leave him there trembling and half-naked. Certainly, Eliot was going to—

A wild sound started in his gut and pushed through him as Eliot grabbed his ass, pulled him apart, and pressed his thumbs _down_ , framing his asshole with the pressure of it. Eliot circled him, teased him, pressed over and around but never _in_. If the bonds holding his wrists and ankles weren’t keeping his body so taught, he would have bent over and begged Eliot to let him fuck himself back onto Eliot’s fingers for days. As it was, the most he could do was wiggle and sigh in relief that he wouldn’t lose the feeling as Eliot set the magic to stroke and tease him for however many hours he got. 

Quentin didn’t realize he was crying until Eliot stepped around to stand in front of him and wiped the tears from his cheeks. He repeated the soothing motion and kissed him on the forehead.

“Close your eyes,” Eliot whispered, and he obeyed. 

Phantom fingers stroked his ear, his chest, his sides. Fingers and mouths claimed his nipples. Teeth grazed against his neck. Arms circled him, possessive. Hands stroked his legs; groped his ass; struck him hard. Magic lips kissed him softly; kissed him hard. He was lost in it. He could have been lost in the insistent, constant teasing of his asshole alone, but altogether it was breathtaking and mind-warping and he needed more. 

The real Eliot sank his teeth into his collarbone; sucked bruises over his body, from neck to stomach to thigh; licked a long line from navel to earlobe and back. Each time, Eliot repeated the spell: _repetere, repetere, repetere._

With each passing graze against his skin, Eliot seemed to inch closer and closer and closer, but never quite touching where he needed him. Real, warm palms fondled his balls. Real, firm fingers reached to massage his taint. Real, gentle fingers traced the crease between his leg and his groin. Always: _repetere, repetere, repetere._

Quentin’s body was split between torture and ecstasy. The number of hands touching him, the number of tongues lapping at different points of his body was pushing him closer and closer to the edge. 

“Sir…” Quentin groaned. Eliot wrapped his fingers around Quentin’s hips and pressed his thumbs into his pelvis. Quentin thrust his hips forward, looking for friction, looking for anything. “Sir, please. It’s…”

“I think if I kept going, you’d come untouched, wouldn’t you, dearest?” The man’s voice was thick and low like syrup dripping over his trembling body. Quentin whimpered and pushed his hips forward as far as his bonds would let him. “Tell me. Tell me how close you are.”

“I’m so close, sir. I don’t think I can control it. I don’t think…need you. Just need you.”

“Tell sir what you need, hm?”

“Need you...on my. _Touching_ me! Need more. Need you.”

“You need me here?” A firm hand wrapped around his cock and Quentin shouted.

“ _Yes_! Sir, please, I can’t. I don’t think I can— _Jesus fuck_ —please, sir. Don’t just—”

“You don’t want me to just what? You want me to jerk you off? Is that it?” Eliot started dragging his hand over Quentin’s cock with the lightest of grips. Quentin bucked his hips and let out a frustrated groan. “Oh, not enough?” 

Eliot kept moving his fist up and down the length of his cock, but too soft, and too slow. Quentin whimpered and twisted, all the while still keeping his eyes closed as the spell worked over his body. Eliot just kept one loose fist passing over his cock.

“Sir,” Quentin sobbed, “Please!”

“I think you’re too close, darling. If I blow you now, you'll be coming down my throat within seconds.” Quentin heard the bed creak as Eliot sat down in front of him. Eliot stopped moving his hand, but he didn’t let go. He pressed the pad of his thumb against Quentin’s slit. A strangled sound made it out of Quentin’s mouth as Eliot barely shifted his thumb to wipe a bead of precum away. 

“You’re okay, baby, breathe,” Eliot’s voice gentled him—Eliot’s actual voice, not his character’s, “I need you to calm down a little before we continue. Can you do that for me?”

The spell didn’t stop. Eliot didn’t lessen it at all, but Quentin breathed in and out as he’d been instructed. He finally lifted his eyes to meet Eliot’s, and he turned his hand to form the _live long and prosper_ sign to signal _green_. That was all Eliot needed. The mask of performance slid back into place. His captor returned. Quentin pulled himself back into it.

Eliot stood up and dropped his towel. Quentin’s mouth watered. It was almost enough to distract him from the push and pull of the spell Eliot had trapped him in.

“You want more, hm? I can give you more,” Eliot stroked the length of his own hard cock, “I’m _going_ to give you more.”

Quentin’s entire body was shaking so hard he almost missed the moment he was lowered to the floor and released from the magical bands keeping him in place. 

It was a chance. He could run; he could fight back. But he couldn’t leave the magic wrapped around his body. Every phantom touch was a dizzying mix of pleasure and pain Eliot had gifted him. Quentin whined at the back of his throat. His body had betrayed him and the riptide was trying to pull him into _wanting_ more than _fearing_.

The riptide won.

“I know, I know darling, _shhh_ ,” Eliot helped him the rest of the way out of his pants, leaving his shirt still loose and wrinkled over his shoulders. He guided him onto the bed, onto his hands and knees, “It will all be over soon. I have another spell to show you, Quentin, then it will all be over.”

“Please, make it stop,” Quentin sobbed, “please make it— _fuck_ what is _that_?”

“Prep spell,” he said lightly, kneeling behind Quentin, nudging his knees a little wider apart. 

“No,” Quentin groaned, as Eliot placed his firm hands on his shoulder blades and pushed him down to his elbows, “No, no. Sir, I can’t. I can’t take more. I can’t. Make. Please just make it stop.”

“Not until you come, darling. I want you to make a mess of this bed while you can feel me touching you _everywhere._ You wouldn’t deny me that, would you?” Eliot spanked Quentin’s ass and he let out a half-yelp-half-sob. “Give me your come, and I might turn the spell off.”

“I’m so. Sir, _please_ , I need it to stop. I’m so _close._ ”

Another spank, another command, “Come for me.”

The words shot through his system and pushed him closer. “ _Fuck_. It’s. I’m. It’s right—”

“Yeah? You ready? About to give me what’s _mine_?”

A shiver ran up Quentin’s spine as Eliot grabbed his ass and spread him wide open. Quentin could feel the wetness from the tip of his cock smearing over his asshole and he shuddered. 

“I’m. _Fuck_. I’m—”

The spell stopped. All he could feel was the grip on his ass and the cock poised to press into him. Quentin sobbed with the sudden _emptiness_. He whined, twisting against Eliot's hold on him: his pleasure barely out of reach, itching to be let loose, so close to the edge. 

“Oh, naughty boy. You were supposed to come before I ended the spell,” he laughed as he spanked Quentin’s ass twice as hard. The heat it sent ringing through his body was almost a relief. Quentin didn’t care he’d been set up for failure, just that he needed the overwhelming feeling of being touched _back_. 

“I suppose I’ll have to claim what I’m owed another way, won’t I?” Eliot dragged the tip of his cock up and down the cleft of Quentin’s ass, making him squirm, but also making him feel _alive_.

“ _Please_ , sir,” Quentin begged. He got an appreciative hum, but the teasing didn’t stop—up and down, up and down. He groaned, bending deeper into position, offering himself up, trying to make the spinning in his head stop as his body cried out for _something._

“Begging for my generosity now, aren’t you, Quentin?” he asked.

He could feel him, lined up and ready for him—right there, right, there, right _there_. It would be so easy for Sir to rock into him; so easy for Sir to take him; he _needed_ Sir to take him _._ He let out a pathetic noise of frustration; he felt he was going to go blind with need; he didn’t _care_ if he was pathetic or depraved—he needed to feel _used_. He couldn’t think of anything he wanted more—needed more—and Sir kept denying him—right _there_ —refusing to give him an ounce of relief. He couldn't understand. He'd been good; he'd endured the spell; he _needed_. He couldn't hear anything over the ring of _need_ in his ears. He couldn't feel anything but need. That was all he was. All he was good for. He just needed everything, everything, everything.

He opened his mouth to beg again when Sir snapped his hips forward and into him without hesitation or warning. He shouted his relief as Sir moved in him and immediately bowed his back into it. 

“Fucked by a Magician,” Sir set a demanding pace that had him wailing, “No one’s going to believe you, ever. _Fuck_ yeah, keep making those sounds. You love what my magic did to you, don’t you? Let me hear it. Let me hear how much you love getting fucked like this.”

He was eager to do anything that would keep Sir moving inside him. “Need this. Jesus Christ, need you. Keep fucking—fucking...use me! You—the way you _move_!”

“That’s right,” Sir punctuated each word with another deep, hard thrust, “It’s all gonna be meaningless now, without magic. I did that to you.”

Sir was right.

“Make you mine,” Sir kept rambling, kept fucking into him, kept making him scream, “Make you forget anything but being _mine._ ”

He could feel the heat swirling in his balls, in his gut, in his lungs. He let out a high pitched keen that broke into a sob as Sir rocked into him.

“Yeah, I can hear how close you are. C’mon, give me everything.”

White-hot lightning shot through his body and he spilled over the bedspread. Sir gave a satisfied hum and immediately slowed, pumping in and out of him in perfect time with each pulse as his body released. He whimpered as Sir kept moving in him with slow, shallow, uneven thrusts. The bed started to feel like it was going to swallow him with pins and needles. His head felt heavy; far too heavy for his body. He felt stretched thin and packed tight together all at once. Every cell in his body was a drop of fire being pressed through sheets of ice. 

He loved it.

Quentin realized, through his pleasure-drunk haze that at some point, Sir had already come inside him. It made him feel warm and pleased as they each tried to catch their breath.

He expected Sir to pull out, clean them up, and start their routine. Instead, he draped himself over his back, wrapped an arm around his chest, and pressed a kiss between his shoulder blades. “That’s it, sweetheart, my magic did that to you.”

* * *

Hours later—after a gentle bath, and a luxurious nap, and some post-aftercare champagne—Quentin curled up next to Eliot’s side, content and warm in their bed. He lightly ran a hand over Eliot’s tattoos: tracing each star's outline, running his fingers over invisible lines, as if connecting them. 

“I like that you un-glamored them. They’re. I appreciate that you let me see them sometimes, when we’re off-campus,” Quentin said, his palm finally stopping to cover the largest one, near Eliot’s elbow, “It makes me feel like—“

“Like you’re dating some bad boy hedge trash, instead of a self-respecting Brakebills student?” Eliot’s laughter bit through the air.

Quentin sat up and scowled at him, “No, like I _know_ you. Like you let me see pieces of you no one else gets to see. Like you trust me with you as much as I trust you with me.”

Eliot studied Quentin’s face for a few heartbeats, then pulled Quentin in to kiss his forehead. 

“I mean it, El.”

“I know, sweetheart,” Eliot said, tucking Quentin’s hair behind his ear, “I do. Trust you. It’s just still...new.”

“Well,” Quentin made a show of looking unimpressed as he nestled into Eliot’s shoulder, “Someday, it’ll be old,” 

Eliot brushed his lips against Quentin’s hairline; Quentin resumed his study of Eliot’s forearm. Winding his hand into Quentin’s hair, Eliot buried his face in it, inhaling deep. They held each other in silence for a few minutes, before Eliot sighed and whispered, “I love you, too.” 

Quentin hummed, satisfied, and burrowed closer into his side.

**Author's Note:**

> "Repetere et resonare" is Latin for "repeat and echo" 'cause we get damn creative up in this bitch.
> 
> Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
